


have mercy, if you please

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blood, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Frottage, Other, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:49:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2447594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a crossroads demon and Harry is just a kid who wants to play guitar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	have mercy, if you please

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be for novena week 10000 years ago but i never finished it. so now here it is. great, thanks.

For the most part, Louis doesn’t get many takers. Whether people forgot the old ways or just decided a soul was worth more than their dearest earthly desire (load of garbage, in Louis' honest opinion), it doesn’t make much difference. All he knows is his little patch of dusty road has been empty for years- until now.

There’s someone walking about at the intersection- no, there’s someone _kneeling_ in the center of his crossroad, scrabbling handfuls of loose-packed dirt away with long, callused fingers.

Louis watches, curious, as the young man digs a shallow hole, barely half a foot deep, and then slings the clunky heavy-looking case off his back to the ground. He unzips it carefully, and Louis inches closer, peering over his shoulder to see what’s inside-

A guitar.

Fucking classic.

The guitar is ignored in favor of something much smaller tucked in the bottom corner of the case. Louis’ breath catches when he realizes what it is, seconds before it’s gently placed in the quickly-dug hole and covered over with a mound of freshly-turned earth.

Charm bags are more of a boondoggle than anything else- the legends are all about ritual, _bring this here at this time on that day_ , but Louis’ never been too fussed about it all if he’s honest. Beggars can’t be choosers, and while he’s nowhere near _begging_ for souls, he’s not exactly above overlooking a few of the prerequisites if it helps him make a deal faster.

He doesn’t have to overlook anything now, because there’s a lovely little charm bag buried right in the center of his crossroad at this very moment. It’s oldschool: a leather sack, rinsed with salt water, filled with the necessary odds and ends- dog’s hair and snake’s teeth and the blood of something, a photo of the supplicant, a few things harder and more grisly to come by. Dark things that require a bit of heartlessness.

The man- hardly a man, Louis notes, trying not to laugh at the tragic peach fuzz on his upper lip- freezes when he looks up to find Louis standing in front of him, even though Louis’d been there pretty much the whole time. Sort of. Dimensions are weird.

After a short pause in which he seems to gather himself, he pushes his wide-brimmed hat up off his forehead and grins big and easy up at Louis; it’s nearly disconcerting, which is almost funny considering where Louis comes from, what he is. His eyes skim once up and down the length of Louis’ bare body, then he settles them carefully on Louis’ face.

Louis looks back down at him for a moment, his gangly sprawled legs and loose curls and the gentle naivety rolling off him in waves, before blinking around uncertainly, searching for whoever must’ve tricked this poor kid into summoning him.

“Hiiii,” the young man says, and his voice is slow and soft, nice. A drawl to it that marks him local. “I’m Harry.” He struggles to his feet, red clay-dust staining his dark jeans, and offers one hand to Louis. He’s barefoot, and tall, and ridiculous. His hat makes him look vaguely like some of the more stereotypical witches Louis has dealt with in his day.

Louis stares at the hand, at the boy, up at the dark sky, waiting for the cosmic joke to hit its punchline. “That’s nice,” says Louis, frowning, “but what are you doing here?”

Harry drops his hand to his side, bashful all of a sudden, tugging at the wild curls creeping from beneath his hat. “Sorry- is this, like, a bad time?” He glances around uncertainly, like Louis’ social calendar is going to jump out from behind the nearest row of cotton. “I just- I heard this story about crossroads, and getting what you want-”

Louis scoffs before he can stop himself, raising a disdainful eyebrow. “And you thought it sounded like a fucking great idea, traipsing out to the middle of nowhere to get what you want? Knowing the price?” Louis doesn’t know if Harry knows the price of a crossroads deal- but he must, must suspect, at least. Nothing is free in this world or the next- that’s the golden rule, as Louis learned it.

Harry ducks his head, shrugging. “I wasn’t sure it would work at all, honestly.”

That makes something in Louis’ stomach twist sour, eyeing the silver cross dangling innocently against Harry’s bare collar bones where his shirt’s open wide. He scowls, digging his bare toes into the hard-packed dirt for a moment, before letting out a long breath, stepping closer to where Harry’s standing nervously, hands clasped behind his back.

“And you thought you’d- what? Just give it a go?” Louis asks, mockingly gentle as he circles close to Harry’s side, around to his broad back, leaning up on his tiptoes to hiss in Harry’s ear. “Thought this-” He reaches around Harry’s neck and fingers the silver cross lightly, careful not to flinch at the way it stings his skin. “-would protect you?”

Harry gasps, quiet, but doesn’t answer, just bites his lip while he waits for Louis to circle back around and face him. Louis doesn’t; the view back here is nice and he needs a moment to collect himself. Apparently a decade without a single deal has made him a bit soft around the edges, and he’s beginning to worry he’s lost his touch.

“Sorry, love,” he says, letting his lips brush the back of Harry’s neck just so, “you just don’t seem the type.”

Harry shivers lightly, but he also laughs, throaty and surprised. “What type do I seem?” he asks softly, glancing over his shoulder and biting his lip again when he meets Louis’ eye.

Well. “The type to flirt with a demon at a crossroads apparently,” says Louis dryly, raising an eyebrow at Harry’s swollen lip when he lets it go.

He’s shameless about it, grins at Louis and bats his eyelashes. “I can’t help it; ‘s just how I am.”

“I bet,” Louis murmurs mostly to himself as he circles back to Harry’s front, crossing his arms over his chest to examine him critically. “Alright, what is it you want then? Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically,” repeats Harry slowly, testing the word on his tongue. Louis nods and Harry stands a bit straighter, pulling his shoulders back and Jesus, they’re broad when he isn’t slouching. Louis stares and doesn’t feel bad about it. Feeling bad is for people, and Louis is happily not a people. “Hypothetically, I want- I want to play guitar really well. Or like, okay.”

Louis blinks at him. Several times. “Sorry,” he says carefully, crossed arms falling to his sides, “come again?”

Harry bends down to grab the guitar from its open case and holds it out to Louis by way of explanation. “I want to be able to play. I’ve tried learning since I was a child, but I just can’t- my fingers-” he tries, offering one hand to Louis to inspect. His fingers look normal- better than, maybe. Nice and long, thick. Louis stares at them a bit longer than necessary.

“You realize,” Louis says, dropping Harry's hand and rubbing at his temple to ward off the truly incredible headache he can feel coming, “that you can ask for absolutely anything. A soul isn’t cheap. If you want to be some sort of world famous musician, you can _ask for that_ and I can give it to you.” Louis speaks slowly and clearly, needing Harry to grasp this. “You’re trading your immortal soul; you don’t have to take baby steps.”

The sun’s well down, and it’s chilly. Harry pulls the guitar closer to his chest, hugging it tight. “I- I know I could,” he mumbles, not quite meeting Louis’ eye. “But it feels like cheating, you know? I want people to listen to me because they want to, not because I’m- because you-”

That’s the stupidest thing Louis can ever imagine hearing. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. You know what you get? Ten years. You get _ten years_ on this earth with whatever you ask for. Just because you can play guitar doesn’t mean you’ll be able to fucking feed yourself.” Louis’ heart is pumping strangely fast in his chest, hard and angry. It feels like his physical form is going to fly apart, too much inside it to stay together. “Do you really want to waste your one decade starving in the street?” he asks, forcing his voice to go calmer, hoping to soothe the trembling in Harry’s hands.

“I think I wouldn’t,” Harry admits, smiling with a little self-deprecating tilt in the corner of his mouth, though he looks upset. “I sing okay. And people like me.” Louis can believe that. “I don’t want to ask for any more than I need.”

He’s a stupid boy. Louis should take the deal, though- there’s no reason to turn it down. He gets a soul to drag down to Hell in ten years’ time and all he has to do in return is teach Harry how to strum a guitar.

It doesn’t make the uneasy twist in his gut die down.

“How’s this,” Louis says brightly, grinning at Harry in what he hopes is a disarming manner. “You go home and think on it for a night. Talk to your mama, your pastor, your beau; make sure you really want to trade your ever-loving soul for a few guitar lessons.”

Harry frowns, troubled. “It won’t be a full moon tomorrow night,” he says, eyeing Louis warily like he’s sussing out some sort of trick. “And I won’t be able to get-” His eyes dart towards the center of the intersection, to the tiny mound of freshly turned earth. “I won’t be able to do that again,” he mumbles, apologetic. Louis’ stomach does a hot, interesting twist, imagining Harry getting some of the seamier contents of that buried charm bag.  

Louis smiles sweetly, twists his body close around Harry’s and presses a single burning kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry; I’ll be around.”

* * *

He isn’t supposed to come back, but he does.

Louis, for a moment, imagines a world where he’s good or strong or moral enough to stay hidden, leave Harry standing in the middle of the crossroad by himself so he can keep his soul intact. It’s a nice picture, in his mind- but he isn’t a saint. He’s a businessman at heart, and Harry’s got something he needs, so he pushes thoughts of redemption away and slinks into Harry’s dimension, soft smile plastered carefully on his face.

When Harry spots him sliding out of the shadows and into existence, his whole face breaks into a huge grin like Louis is the best thing he ever hoped to see. “Hi,” he says, and his voice is warm. Louis’ stomach twists, guilty but ecstatic.

“Hi, yourself. Made up your mind, then?”

Harry nods firmly, and, yeah, there’s that fucking guitar still strapped to his back. “I know what I want,” is all he says by way of explanation, earnest and big-eyed and so, so stupid in Louis’ honest professional opinion.

“Sure you do, sweetheart.” Louis keeps his voice light and teasing, though he’s starting to think nothing would scare Harry off anyway. He vaguely considers turning into a massive fire-spitting dog, but figures it'd be anticlimactic when Harry just pats his head or something equally stupid. “So,” he turns businesslike in an instant, dropping to a squat in the middle of the dirt road and signalling for Harry to follow suit, “let’s outline the terms and conditions, music man.”

Harry blushes hard at the nickname but laughs as well, dropping down next to Louis with open curiosity on his face. “Alright, I want to play guitar well. That’s pretty much it.”

Louis _hmmmm’_ s thoughtfully, dragging a finger through the dirt and drawing a vertical line between them. “Alright, before I give you that, I need to know what we’re starting with.” He nods at the guitar on Harry’s back. “Give us a taste, yeah?”

Harry scrambles to sling the guitar off his back and pull it from its case. It looks good in his hands, the dark polished wood and the tarnished silver rings on his fingers. Louis stares openly, no use trying to pretend he’s not what he so clearly is.

When Harry starts playing, the problem is abundantly clear. His fingers move correctly- sure, practiced- but the playing itself is lackluster. There’s no soul in it (ha fucking ha), too much inside his own head. He’d be fine if he just had a bit more confidence.

Fortunately for Louis and unfortunately for Harry, Louis is a crossroads demon, not a life coach. He’s here to benefit from Harry’s mental blocks, not walk him through them.

Harry eventually fumbles to the end of his little song, blinking at Louis with sad owl face.

“Well,” Louis says cheerfully, taking the guitar from Harry’s hands and laying it carefully back in the case, “we can fix that right up. You’re not hopeless.”

That makes Harry beam. “So you’ll do it? The deal?”

“Of course,” Louis says, like it’d never crossed his mind not to. “Now, give me your hand.”

Harry offers it easily, palm open, face-up and trusting, and Louis turns it over, places the palm of his own hand over the back of Harry’s and twines their fingers together. “Terms and conditions, Harry, let’s go- so you want to play guitar well, correct?” He looks at Harry beseechingly, mentally willing him to add _fame_ and _fortune_ and _happiness_ to the list.

Harry doesn’t take the bait. “Yes, that’s what I want,” he says, intense and sure.

Louis tries not to sigh as he pulls Harry’s hand down to the dirt, nudges their index fingers together to write _GUITAR_ in the dirt on Louis’ side of the vertical line.

“Wow,” Harry mumbles, and Louis looks up at him quickly, wondering if he’s had a change of heart that fast.

Louis presses, “What?” when Harry doesn’t seem inclined to explain himself.

It makes Harry blush, laughing self-consciously. “Um. I dunno, it’s just- I thought there’d be like, chanting? And like...Latin. Or something. Thought it’d be all arcane.”

An affronted scoff leaves Louis’ mouth before he can stop it. “Oh, _I’m_ sorry, is me scratching _GUITAR_ in the dirt not good enough for you? Should we sacrifice a goat?”

“No-” Harry cuts in desperately, trying not to laugh.

“No, Harold, don’t be _modest_ , let’s write out a contract in blood to make it arcane for you.” They’re both laughing now, and Louis’ honestly never had such a good time making a deal. People are usually pretty somber when they sign over their immortal souls, oddly enough. “Blood and Latin, honestly.”

Harry just smiles, shrugging. “This is good, too,” he says equitably.

“Of course it’s good,” Louis snaps, but it’s good-natured. He glances back down at the _GUITAR_ written shakily in the dirt. “And that’s all?” Louis prompts, a last ditch effort. “You’re sure?”

He’s surprised when Harry smiles and ducks his head again, looking away from Louis like he’s embarrassed. “You’re worried about me,” he says, quiet and amused.

“I’m not- I don’t- it’s just-” Louis sputters, so shocked he nearly drops Harry’s hand. “Shut up!”

“I don’t want a charmed life,” Harry murmurs, shrugging so that their shoulders bump together. “I just want this.”

Fine.

“Now,” Louis goes on, still slightly flustered, “the fun part.”

He moves their hands over to the column in front of Harry, drops their fingers into the dirt and writes _SOUL_ and then below that _BLOOD_.

Harry jerks away like he’s been shocked. “Blood? For what? I was kidding about the arcane thing, mostly-”

“So I can drink it,” Louis deadpans. “I’m terribly thirsty.” Harry smiles uncertainly like he isn’t sure that’s a joke. “It’s to seal the deal, idiot. You give blood. That’s how these things work.”

After a moment, Harry nods, his hand shaking slightly where Louis’ is wrapped around it. Louis squeezes gently, isn’t sure why he wants to reassure him when what Harry’s doing is- well.

“What now?” Harry prompts, shivering a bit when a breeze blows around them.

“Now we make the deal,” Louis says, his heart rate picking up a bit. He wonders if Harry can feel it where their hands are still pressed together. Harry must, because he looks up at Louis, alarmed.

“Are you alright?” he asks, but that gets cut off by an _umph_ when Louis pushes into his space and seals their lips together. Harry goes pliant right away, lets Louis press him back into the dirt, right over the place where the contract is scrawled in their twin finger-strokes.

He’s so, so easy that Louis almost feels bad when he bites down hard on Harry’s tongue, hard enough to break the skin and fill both their mouths with blood. Harry, to his credit, doesn’t scream or curse, just grunts low in his throat and fists a hand in the wild hair at the nape of Louis’ neck, keeping him in place.

And like, technically, the deal is done. Louis’ got Harry’s blood smeared around his mouth, and Harry’s soul is tethered to him, might as well have his name written on it. But Harry doesn’t seem like he plans on stopping any time soon, so Louis shrugs and goes with it, sucking Harry’s tongue into his mouth and licking, soothing, over his own teeth marks.

He gasps, caught off guard, when Harry's free hand cups his asscheek and squeezes, kneading at it thoughtlessly while he hums into Louis' mouth. Louis' eyes pop open, shocked, and Harry's already watching him, curious; Louis feels the corner of Harry's mouth turn up.

"You're not what you look like at all, are you?" Louis asks suspiciously, pulling away from Harry and pointing a finger accusingly at his heart. Harry raises his eyebrows.

"And what do I look like?" he shoots back, other hand drifting to Louis' ass as well.

 _Innocent,_ Louis thinks, but he just rolls his eyes and presses back against Harry's hands. Harry's shirt is mostly open anyway, but Louis does him the favor of flicking open the last few buttons, pushing the well-worn fabric off his shoulders. The tattoos aren't a surprise- Louis could see them before, through the gap in his shirt- but there are more than he'd expected.

"You sure you don't want a deal to join the circus?" Louis runs his hands over the smooth ink, birds and names and numbers. "The Amazing Inked Man, or something, isn't that a thing people do?"

Harry snorts, squirming like he's ticklish when Louis ghosts over his ribs, stomach. "You're ridiculous," he says, pulling Louis down to kiss him again, which is a shame because Louis has a lot of comebacks for that, like _can you really call anyone ridiculous when you sold your soul for guitar skills like the biggest cliche on the planet._ It's alright, though, because he likes the way Harry's tongue feels and tastes in his mouth, tender and blood-warm, swollen. It must hurt when he nips at it, because Harry whimpers, hands spasming helplessly against Louis' flanks.

Louis doesn't apologize, because he doesn't apologize, ever. He does go a bit gentler, easing his hands down Harry's body to get at the button of his jeans. He flicks them open easily, only slightly distracted by Harry's lips working slick over his jaw and neck. 

Sex with people is weird, and Louis hasn't done a lot of it. They're too frail, the meat and blood of them too close to the surface, and as much as he likes taking their souls, he isn't a huge fan of the messy business of killing. Harry feels good though, solid and warm, very much alive beneath him. It's double-good because Louis can feel the strong pulse of his soul, the echo of it, the way it's Louis' now, or will be in ten years' time. If Louis can be careful with him (and he feels like he can, going back to Harry's mouth again and again, gentling over his bruised tongue), this could actually be a lot of fun.

"You're so hot," Harry mumbles, which is silly no matter which way he means it. Louis' a demon, damnation burning under his skin. Louis' a demon, flesh picked out to look exactly like whatever would pull Harry down to Hell fastest.

He whispers, "Thank you," anyway, smiling against Harry's collarbone as they both push Harry's jeans down his thighs. Watching him struggle to kick them off is an exercise in patience and keeping a straight face, neither of which are Louis' strong points. "Can you hurry it up a bit? Ten years goes by quickly, you know."

Harry snorts, looking nearly offended, but finally manages to kick his jeans away. He's really something, is the thing. In general, people are all pretty tempting for Louis, just like anything that God had touched at some point. But he mostly feels the same level of temptation looking at a person as he does looking at, say, a leaf. It's nice, and he wants to touch it, snap it between his thumb and forefinger, feel the traces of God's fingers, but he doesn't want to fuck the leaf. Harry's not a leaf. His eyelids look heavy when he blinks slowly up at Louis, mouth sliding into a wide, knowing sort of smile.

" _Ten years go by quickly_ ," Harry echoes, voice husky and bratty all at once. He's terrible. He deserves Hell, probably. He bucks his hips softly where Louis' kneeling above him, knocks him down so they're flush, Louis sitting heavily on his meaty hipbones. 

Louis rolls his eyes, leaning down to press their chests together, feel the way his own Hell-hot skin makes Harry shiver and prickle with sweat. Louis likes his own body's reactions nearly as much as he likes Harry's, likes the feeling of blood rushing, pooling warm and heavy between his legs, likes the way his stomach clenches when he feels Harry's hips press up to rub against him. Human bodies are fallible, but it's so evident in every curve and synapse of them that they were made for great things. Every bit of him can feel Harry- the taste of him, still a bit of blood-iron on Louis' tongue, the smell of his sweat and the dirt they're stirring up, wrestling in the road, the way it feels good to stretch his muscles, pressing Harry down and being pushed in turn.

It makes him angry, a little, that people get all this- that _Harry_ gets all this- and they throw it away for shit like playing guitar. He pushes that thought away though before it gets to him too much, takes him out of the moment.

Harry's panting beneath him, fingers gripping bruise-tight at Louis' hips, and that feels good, too, somehow. Louis' body feels so much that it nearly makes him dizzy, and he has to drop his head to Harry's shoulder, breathe heavily against his neck and just let Harry work their bodies together, since he seems to know what he's after. And it does feel good, the drag of his foreskin against the coarse patch of hair on Harry's belly, the equally tantalizing drag of Harry's cock between his cheeks- the way his body tightens up in a heady-good-shock when the wet head of it catches on Louis' rim, threatens to push in for just a fraction of a second before the frantic rolling of Harry's hips shifts it away. Harry hisses at that, too, biting at Louis' mouth, cheek, finally latching onto his earlobe and sinking in there.

It's such a strange, electric feeling, Harry's dull teeth aching away as they cut into Louis' skin and the fire-hot stream of his breath blowing into Louis' already-overheated ear. He gasps, turning his face away from the feeling even as he presses into it, choking when Harry's tongue laves at the sore spot.

It doesn't stop, is the thing. It keeps feeling better and better, the glide going easier with Harry's sweat and the desperate sort of wetness blurting from Louis' cock every time they come together, and the noises Harry's making keep getting louder and whinier, hot against Louis' neck, and he really isn't prepared for it when it all sneaks up on him and his body seizes up, hips going tight and jerky as he gasps and comes across Harry's belly with a handful of wild thrusts.

Harry hisses again, and Louis, fuckdumb as he is, grimaces as he notices the steam rising off Harry's skin between them, the shiny blister-burns his come has left on Harry's stomach.

"Fuck, sorry," Louis says, voice rough from the way his breath's been tearing out of his lungs, but Harry just whines high in his throat, pulls Louis down to lick into his mouth- pressing Louis against his fresh, steaming burns in the process- and he comes, cock jerking hard between them, cool in comparison to Louis' furnace-heat.

They stay like that for a long while, and when Louis finally pulls away he laughs at the way Harry's sweat has mixed with the clay, so they're both caked in a light coating of mud.

"Sorry," he says again, eyes dropping to the angry welts on Harry's belly, fingers following to poke at the marks curiously. Harry grimaces at him, scrunching his nose up at the pain.

"I've had worse," he says, shrugging, but there's a mischievous glint in his eye.

"You _liked_ it," Louis accuses, snorting. He's still astride Harry's hips, figures he'll stay here as long as he can. It's comfortable, better than the ground anyway. They go quiet again, Harry absently running his hands over whatever bits of Louis he can reach, Louis waiting for the ball to drop. He feels it when it does, when Harry's heartbeat picks back up and his muscles go tight.

 

“What’s it like?” Harry asks quietly. He’s shaking, sweat cooling on his skin making him shiver violently. Louis frowns, peering down at him critically.

“No refunds,” he says seriously, taking in the fear coming off Harry in waves, the pinprick panic of his pupils. “No backsies.” He doesn’t let himself feel sorry about it, just hopes Harry hasn't already started to regret the deal. There's nothing either of them can do about it now.

Harry turns his head to the side, presses his cheek against the dirt. “No, I know- I just- what’s it like?” He looks back at Louis, eyes wide, mouth still bitten red. “Please?”

It’s heavy like a punch to the gut, so Louis rolls off him, settles on his stomach with his chin pillowed on his crossed arms. He tries to explain Hell to someone who doesn't understand eternity. “It’s not like anything, not really. It’s just a lot of nothing, all the time.” His skin crawls thinking about it. “It’s so big- so empty, it might as well be a doorless room the size of your own body. You can go forever in any direction, never find anyone or anything.”

Harry makes a small noise, but Louis is careful not to look at his face. “That sounds worse, somehow, than the fire and brimstone and all that.” His voice is so low, like he hopes if he speaks softly enough Louis won’t be able to hear the tremor in it.

Louis thinks about Harry, his open face, the sweet tilt of his mouth, the charm bag with his school photo in it. Thinks about how he must be easy to love, easy to like, to remember. The tattoos etched on his chest- initials, dates, places. “For you, I think it will be.”

It’s quiet for a while, apart from the crickets and cicadas, the wind rustling the fields. When Harry sits up, the sweat-mud has dried and cracked, leaving his back looking like something breaking apart. He pulls on his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, then his pants. When he’s mostly put-together, he leans over to grab the discarded guitar, settles it gently against his chest and hums to himself as he tunes the strings minutely. His lips quirk when he tries to hit a sour note and can’t.

It’s like magic, watching his fingers work over the frets. It’s effortless, absolutely beautiful, and he looks disbelieving, like he can’t understand the connection between the sounds vibrating through the air and his own hands moving.

He murmurs, “Wow,” and then looks over at Louis, like he needs confirmation.

Louis grins, turns lazily onto his back and stretches. “Yeah, wow. You’re going to be a proper diva, you know.”

Harry’s eyes glint in the dark. “What’s that?” he asks, putting a hand to his ear. “It almost sounded like you don’t think I need a deal to be successful. Weird, since you were so-”

“Shut up!” Louis laughs, going up on his knees and pushing Harry back to the dirt, careful not to jostle the guitar. “Just because I wanted what was best for you-”

“You probably say that to all the damned souls.” Harry’s cheeks are red, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He’s still scared, still trembling in his skin, but he’s smiling softly up at Louis like Louis isn’t, in a lot of ways, just as terrifying as whatever’s waiting for Harry ten years down the road.

Louis feels grossly, unbearably fond, so he shoves a hand in Harry’s face so he won’t have to look at him anymore. “Only the really, really damned ones.” He gets to his feet, going to the little mound where the charm bag waits beneath the surface. The earth is cold when he digs his fingers in, but it’s a nice distraction from how he can feel Harry’s gaze burning into his back. He gets a good handful, then goes back to Harry, pulls him to his feet and sifts the dirt into his palm.

“Throw it in the crossroad and don’t look back.” He gives the instruction carefully, pressing Harry’s fingers closed over the little mound.

Harry’s eyes go wide, and then soft, and he nods. “Ten years?” he asks, nudging his bare foot against Louis’ so their toes overlap. It’s such a weird gesture, but it makes Louis purse his lips against a smile anyway.

“Ten years, on the dot.” He leans up, kisses Harry so quickly he doesn’t even have time to react, and then steps back. “Don’t be late,” he says, faux-serious. Then he winks and disappears, leaving Harry in the dark crossroad with his fingertips pressed to his mouth, grinning like an idiot.

* * *

 It’s not that Louis is surprised to see him- except he sort of is. He’d convinced himself that, somehow, God and his flock of righteous do-goody pigeons would intervene in the case of Harry Styles. Nothing doing, though. It’s been ten years, to the dot, and Louis feels the pull like fire in his gut.

The pull, oddly enough, draws him right to his own intersection. It’s still dirt road, thank fuck- so many have been paved over in the last decade, and that won’t be good for business at all once it happens here. Not much burying to be done on a cement highway.

Harry’s there, standing right in the center of the road, looking just as good as Louis remembers. He’s even wearing another stupid hat. There are a few lines on his face, laughter lines around his eyes and mouth, but he isn't old enough to have aged much. He's thicker, no teenage wiriness to his body, and Louis' mouth feels dry looking at him. 

“Hi,” Harry says softly, grinning at Louis with those fucking dimples. “Good to see you again.”

Louis snorts at that, crossing his arms over his chest. He usually quite likes this part, the justice of it all. He isn’t looking forward to it now. “Don’t be stupid, Harry.”

Harry’s smile widens just a bit. “You remember my name!”

It’s such a silly thing to say; Louis can’t help but laugh. “Idiot,” he says, and it’s too fond for a ten year gap.

And then Harry pulls his guitar off his back- same beat-up case, even- and drops to sit on the dirt, looking up at Louis curiously. “If we’re not in too much of a hurry?” he asks, unzipping the case before Louis even answers.

Not that Louis can answer, really. He just stands there, hands useless at his sides and mouth hanging open. Harry smirks, tuning the guitar like it’s second nature, and Louis finally manages to sit across from him, so close their knees touch.

“You look exactly the same as I remember,” Harry says quietly, eyes closed as he focuses on twisting the machine heads just right. “I always wondered if I was just- if I’d made you up.”

Louis snorts, finally pulled out of his shock. “As if you could’ve sold half as many records without my help.”

Harry looks up sharply at that, eyebrows drawn together like a hawk’s. “You’ve been paying attention?”

“Here and there,” Louis says, waving a hand vaguely. “Enough to know you did alright for yourself.”

“Couldn’t have without you,” Harry mumbles, smiling down at his guitar.

“Awwwwww,” Louis says, leaning forward to press a fingertip into one of Harry’s dimples. He doesn’t say that he’s not entirely sure that was true.

Instead of answering, Harry just turns his face into Louis’ hand, humming contentedly when Louis opens his palm and rests it against Harry’s cheek. Harry doesn’t open his eyes when he starts picking out the opening chords of a song, the first song that’d gotten him on the radio, something about crossroads and devil deals that makes Louis’ stomach squirm happily.

It’s nice, feels good to have Harry’s voice reverberating through his palm, but it ends eventually, leaving them sat on the same old dusty stretch of highway.

When Harry opens his eyes again, they’re a bit wet, but what he says, nonsensically, is, “Thank you, so much, for everything. For my whole life.”

And christ, that hurts a bit, somewhere deep in Louis’ chest. He grimaces, leaning over the guitar and pressing his mouth to Harry’s again, something he’s done so few times that there’s no possible explanation for why it feels this familiar. “Don’t do that,” he says, somewhat desperately, pressing the words into Harry’s cheek. “You did so well. You did so much in ten years-”

“Don’t be a sap,” says Harry, laughing a bit wetly. “God, don’t cry, I’m going to cry-”

“You’re already crying, idiot!” Louis nearly wails, and fuck, this needs to stop now. He has a reputation to uphold. He shakes himself, wiping his face on Harry’s shirt, and then sits up, biting back a laugh at Harry’s blotchy, shiny face. “You’re an ugly crier, Harry Styles, has anyone ever told you that?”

Harry makes a terrible face, then sighs, like he’s pulling himself together. "Do you think-" Harry says, and his voice shakes, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Do you think you could visit me? Once every thousand years or so?" He says the last bit dryly, like he's trying to make a joke and falling heartbreakingly short. 

Louis doesn't know how to tell him that a thousand years will feel like a breath and an eternity all in one, how a place with the absence of God is like a vacuum of nothing that stretches in every direction. So he doesn't tell him that, just says, "Well, business does get awfully slow sometimes," and lets himself feel the sun of it when a tiny thankful smile appears on Harry's face. Harry just nods, leaning in to kiss Louis one more time before setting his shoulders.

“Ready?” he asks, voice forced steady, pushing his hand into Louis’ and winding their fingers together.

Louis squeezes his hand, giving a short nod. He looks at Harry for a long time, this Harry, ten years older. Solid, heavy, alive. He commits it to memory, his face and the feeling of their hands together, what it was like to kiss him, what it will be like to have his soul as a tally-mark on Louis’ conscience.

“Ready.”

 

 


End file.
